


The iron prize

by Cirilla9



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Distrust, Doriath, Fantastic Racism, First Age, Menegroth, Murder, Rough Trade, Silmarils, Terrifying Tolkien Week, disagreement leading to serious consequences, greed - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 12:19:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12531196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirilla9/pseuds/Cirilla9
Summary: The scene from Silm when Thingol was about to receive a Silmaril from dwarven smiths but the trade agreement gone bad.





	The iron prize

**Author's Note:**

> For Terrifying Tolkien Week Day 4: the iron prize

Footsteps echoed in the spacious halls of Menegroth, as king Thingol descended to the forges, where his precious commission was to be finished tonight. His greatest treasure will be joined with the only suiting for such a masterful work frame, the Nauglamír, and he will be able to keep Silmaril with him always, he wouldn’t have to part with the jewel anymore, hid it locked from jealous eyes. Now he will be able to wore it as a necklace all the time, let the Silmaril strengthen his aura of beauty and nobility and show everyone the magnitude of the King of all elves. All elves that counted anyway, the Noldor dirtied in the blood of their kin had no meaning anymore.

As he walked into the underground hall, dwarves murmuring among themselves fell silent; all malicious whispers died on their lips. Thingol hardly paid any attention to them as his eyes settled at once at the beautiful craft, resting at the table in the middle of the room.

The two greatest works of two folks, Fëanor’s Silmaril and Nauglamir created by the smith masters from Nogrod,  were now joined. Their tangled light lit the space around and seemed to absorb any other light in its proximity, casting everything else into a yet deeper darkness.

The shadows danced on the stone walls; the mirk darkened the serious - like carved from stone themselves – faces of the dwarves.

Stricken by the work’s immense beauty, the king reached for it. One slim finger grazed the plain surface of the jewel, going smoothly to the more angular gold of the dwarves.

\- Not so quickly, my lord.

The deep voice stopped him before the king got a firm hold on the treasure. Thingol frowned at the Naugrim that dared to interrupt his moment of awe so insolently.

\- Our payment… - the dwarf resumed.

\- Was agreed upon, - cut him off Thingol with elegant swipe of his wrist. – You were paid for your work. Now hand me the effect.

The dwarves exchanged meaningful glances.

\- No.

One elegant blond eyebrow shot upward.

\- What did you say? – asked the king with icy composure.

\- We discussed it thoroughly, considered in our company and came to the agreeable judgement. Nauglamír is our greatest treasure, it is our tradition, the heritage of our fathers. This prize you offer is too low to give away so easily the work of our hands and hearts.

King of Doriath narrowed his catlike eyes on him.

\- _Now_ you want to negotiate the prize? When the contract is long ago signed and the commission ready, waiting to be received? No, it is too late for that, far too late, master dwarf. Give me my property and be gone from my kingdom. And leave grateful that I let you go that easily after you’ve treated me with such flagrant disrespect.

During his speech, blinded by his own pride and the desire for Silmaril, affecting him already, he missed the furtive movement of the dwarvish negotiator. His eyes glued only to Fëanor’s jewel, it escaped his sight that the dwarf took out his dagger.

The first attacker stepped forward with some hesitation. He shoved the blade into the unsuspecting elf’s side. Thingol was unarmored, why should he be in the shelter of his own home? He was unprepared for the armed attack from the least expected side, from his allies and trade partners.

The king only bend in two and gasped, too shocked to react properly, to defend himself and the second dwarf moved forward from the line of Naugrims, grabbed the dagger still protruding from the wound and thrust the knife into their victim again.

Before Thingol really grasped the true peril of his situation, they stepped forward one by one, each taking the same blade and dealing the next stab. Each moved more daring than his predecessor and soon Thingol, the great elvish lord, king of all Sindar, laid among the tight circle of the dwarves looming over him, huddled upon the marble floor, too weak to fight back. The rich fabric of his gown was stained with blood in so many places that soon its color became indistinguishable as the precious life-giving liquid left the king’s veins rapidly.

The dwarves worked in grim silence, their distorted shadows flitted on the walls in the macabre dance of death, like wraiths wielding curved blades, thrusting them in the quivering body of their victim laying upon the floor; the dissonance stirred in the music of the world their deed created stained Arda Marred even more.

Shadow seemed to seize them all as they wrought the terrible crime without pride but with grievous determination. Only the light of the Silmaril shone fair as ever, unaffected by the tragedy displaying around it.


End file.
